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Tuesday, 10 January 2012

A Mutt Called Bimbo

A MUTT CALLED BIMBO

From the moment he entered our house as a fat,
roly-poly black bundle of supercharged energy, Bimbo started carving out a
niche for himself within our hearts that was as deep and as permanent as the
Grande Canyon itself. He was one happy
puppy. If he missed his mother those
first few days when he came to live with us in late May, you could not
tell. That little black stub that looked
like a long pointed morel perched on the end of his thick haired, somewhat
elongated round body would have quickly worn out a metal hinge had that been
its tether. It just never stopped
wagging for a single second. With eyes
sparkling like huge diamonds from under that black mass of curls, looking at
you with unconditional love, you couldn't help but adore him. Even serious, sensible, Baba (as grandma was
known by all), who took
over for me around the house and with the kids while I worked out in the fields
with my husband, was not immune to his charm. Bimbo wooed her as fervently as he did
everyone else.

"We'll call him Bingo", I had suggested
when we first brought him home.

"Bimbo", echoed three-year old
Carol. Her tongue and her ears had not
quite become synchronized yet so "Bimbo" was her version of
"Bingo". And so "Bimbo"
joined our family.

If his name were to have been taken literally, it
would have been the biggest misnomer known to modern man, for Bimbo was as true
as the world is round. His devotion was
unfailing, especially to the kids, for whom he would have gladly given his life
had the need arisen. He was our guard
dog, our babysitter, our entertainer, our protector, our pet, our cattle dog,
and whatever other responsibility we bestowed upon him. He gladly accepted everything and all for the
price of a little love.

That first summer, the girls stayed close to the
house, with directives from Baba, who found it easier to lay down iron clad
rules than to chase rambunctious kids with orders and instructions. Jim, being bigger was allowed to roam around
the big yard with Bimbo waddling along at his side and Baba keeping a watchful
eye on them through the window. The two
were inseparable.

Summer turned to fall and fall into winter and
Bimbo grew much faster than the kids. He
converted his baby fat into surplus energy and spent countless hours playing
with the kids in the deep soft snow. By
next spring, the kids were still kids, but Bimbo was fully grown. Even though he was still a kid at heart, he
was given more and more responsibility.
He welcomed the opportunity to be useful, and upon completion of a task
would look up at us with those big bright eyes just sparkling with pride at his
accomplishment.

When it came to immunizing and branding the
cattle that spring, he assisted us with penning the cattle and herding them
into the chutes, but he got very upset if the cattle bellowed when the brand or
a needle was applied. He would stand
there pleading with that whine that revealed his empathetic distress! He seemed to have a natural instinct for herding duties or maybe he
was just a fast learner. Whatever it
was, he was quickly becoming an asset to the farming operations.

He particularly enjoyed the cattle drives to or
from the far pasture, these coming during the spring and fall of the year. He sensed the importance of the job and he
raced around in circles, yelping excitedly, anxious to get on with it. While we organized the details, Bimbo's eyes,
glistened with
anticipation and impatient to get going already.
Getting a hundred head of cattle out of the yard and on to the road was
a wonderful and exciting game for Bimbo as he ran barking after each stray that
kept getting behind a shed or a barn or some granary. Mounted on Little Mite, I helped round them
up and then rode behind the herd all the way to the pasture with Bimbo racing
behind to keep the stragglers moving.
John went on ahead with the truck and a load of hay as enticement. The older cattle had done this before and were
easy to herd, but boisterous
yearlings and older calves sometimes presented problems.

After the drive, Bimbo would happily hop into the
truck, and sit there panting proudly all the way home as if he had just done
this very important job all by himself.
I think he loved the sense of accomplishment. He loved riding in the truck and sometimes
could be a real nuisance if his feet were muddy and he jumped in before he was
invited (and wiped clean).

Each spring we bought a hundred chicks to be
raised for meat for the following winter.
While the chicks were small, they were kept in a temporary pen near the
house. Jim was fascinated by the wee
chicks. He learned to open the gate and
enter the pen. Once inside the pen, he
would try to catch the chicks, which would scatter in all directions, often resulting in
some of them escaping from the pen through the gate that he had left open. This not only upset the chicks inside but
would necessitate rounding up the chicks that had escaped from the pen.

Time and again, Baba had instructed Jim. "Stay away from the chicks. Don't go near the pen"!

Time and again Jim ignored the warnings.

With John and me out in the field, it was Baba
who stayed home to take care of the kids and all the minor chores around the
house. She was not a young woman. Chasing after small chicks was not only arduous
work for her, it was also time consuming.
And it was definitely a chore that was NOT in her job description.

One day when Jim had sent the chicks scurrying
all over the yard, again, Baba decided to chastise him with a couple of well
placed slaps to his behind to add some punch to her orders. As she held him to deliver the discipline,
Jim's shrieks sent Bimbo into a frenzy.
He raced around barking and found it ineffective to stop the
punishment. In desperation, he gave a
warning growl and grabbed Baba's long skirt with his teeth, tugging her back,
growling menacingly until, taken off guard and alarmed by this suddenly savage
attack from the angry dog, Baba let Jim go.
She never again dared to discipline Jim or the girls if Bimbo was
nearby, no matter how much they deserved it.

Jim and Bimbo wandered freely about the
yard. We had trained Jim to always
answer when we called him. (Until Jim went to school, we always
called him by his Ukrainian name “Evaso” meaning “Johnny”). At hearing his name called, Jim's voice would
always come back "Hah", and we'd know where to find him. If Jim was too far to hear, or was too
distracted, Bimbo always heard and would bark, his keen sense of hearing always
a dependable way of tracking their whereabouts.

One late summer day, John and I had been busily
working on the yard, cleaning out granaries and getting ready for the impending
harvest. It was evening and we were
concentrating on finishing our task so we failed to notice that Jim, who had been playing nearby, was no
longer in sight.

I called for him but there was no answering
"Hah". I called again,
louder. Still no answer. Concern changed to alarm and then panic as I
yelled for all I was worth, listening intently for Bimbo's bark if not Jim's
answer. Still nothing. There was a creek nearby and my mind
envisioned terrible possibilities. John
had joined me by now and we called loudly alternating between "Evasu" and "Bimbo"
as we frantically searched beyond the large yard. It was obvious they were not within its
limits.

Then, we heard Bimbo's bark, coming from
somewhere out in the middle of the field of tall wheat beyond the shelter
belt. Heading for that bark, my heart
pounding with renewed hope, we met Bimbo, who was leaping high with each step
to see beyond the tall wheat as he ran towards us.

"Evaso! Go find Evaso", I told Bimbo and he
took off, back into that wheat with John and me in hot pursuit. Almost a quarter of a mile we followed Bimbo
through that tall wheat before we found Jim, sitting peacefully amid the rows
of tall grain, quietly stacking a bunch of pebbles into some imaginary
fort. We would have never found him
without Bimbo.

Jim was seven the year we had our first problem
rooster. We used to let our chickens roam free on the yard then. This rooster was a real cocky fellow and he was
irrevocably convinced that he ruled the roost.
Any trespassers across his territory were always dealt with
severely. That is, he'd pick a fight
with anyone that he felt he had a good chance of beating. Jim was a prime target for this territorial
self-appointed dictator. He was small
enough to tackle and best of all, he couldn’t fight back.

That is, Jim didn't fight back. If Bimbo wasn't around to save Jim, the
rooster would fly at Jim's neck, scratching him with his claws, pummelling him with his
wings and pecking at his head with his beak.
This would set Jim screaming at the top of his lungs, bringing Bimbo and
me flying to his rescue. I'd pick that
rooster off; give him a few sound kicks that sent him flying while Bimbo raced
around barking furiously at the nasty villain.
Again I would admonish Jim to stay out of that section of the yard,
again Jim would promise, and again he would forget after a couple of days.

One evening I was busy milking Suzy, our Ayrshire milk cow,
when I heard Jim's scream that told me that rooster was up to his old tricks
again. Jumping off the stool, I cleared
that fence with one leap trying desperately to fly rather than run to reach Jim
faster. By the time I got there, Bimbo
had already grabbed that rooster and was holding him by the neck while the vile
bird flapped his wings helplessly in a vain attempt to get away. I had had enough. I took that rooster from Bimbo and carried
him directly to the chopping block. With
one swing of the axe, our troubles were over and there was chicken soup for
dinner the next day.

There was also Jessie, the cow that was a problem to Jim. She wasn’t trying to be mean to Jim but Bimbo
knew that her games were difficult for Jim to fend off so Bimbo sent Jessie
into retreat many a time by his growl and sometimes even a nip at her
heels. Eventually Jessie learned that if
Bimbo was around, it was just better not to tackle Jim at all.

Bimbo loved kids.
Actually, Bimbo loved people. But
more than anything, Bimbo loved kids.
They were worth any pain, any discomfort, any sacrifice. There was one family that used to visit us
who had four small boys, aged three to nine.
These boys were ruthless. They
were fast, furious and into everything at once, an unrelenting, merciless,
demolition crew. They played rough - not
only with each other but with everything - toys, animals, people, anything they
came across. And they came across Bimbo,
simple, loving, trusting, Bimbo, who was willing to endure anything for a sake
of some attention from kids. One of
their favourite games
was to grab Bimbo's tongue and drag him around the yard. I used to doubt Bimbo's intellect when he let
them get away with it, never once clamping his teeth into those callous and
cruel hands that caused him such indignity and discomfort.

But I think that he found these kids easier to
take than another family, with three kids who were afraid of dogs. Poor Bimbo was beside himself because he
could not approach these kids with whom he would have loved to play but who,
for some unknown reason, were terrified of him.
He tried so hard to show them he was harmless and friendly, that all he
wanted was to love them, but he could not break through their barrier of
fear. He was relegated to sitting at a
distance, watching longingly and forlornly, while the kids all frolicked
together on the yard.

Bimbo was a friend not only to the kids. He also stood guard over our calves, our
cats, our rabbits and other
animals as well as us adults. Mitzy, our
mother cat, never had to sleep on cold winter ground. She curled up on a nice warm shaggy black
cushion with built-in heat as she napped during cold winter nights. There was never any dog/cat animosity
there. They were fast and loyal
friends.

As Jim grew older, his interests changed and he turned to books for his
entertainment. Bimbo seemed to accept
this transition naturally and turned to the girls for company. He was older now and more mature with a lot
more responsibility with farm chores and he watched over his charges
dutifully. He also especially liked the
fact that there were now almost always a lot of other kids around, neighbours’
kids, friends of our kids who came to play at our place. He revelled in their company and in their games. And the kids in turn all adored him. It was a natural mutual admiration society.

Bimbo did have one bad habit though. No matter how much we scolded him for it, he
seemed to derive some fiendish pleasure out of chasing the cars that sped along
the road by the yard. He would race
along barking and nipping at the spinning tires until the car was way past the
yard. Then he'd come back panting, his
ears perky, his eyes bright and sparkling with pleasure as if he had just run
some great marathon and had won. He knew
he'd get scolded and he didn't care. He
had chased that car away and he was proud of it! There never was a hint of remorse in those
dancing eyes after those chases. We just
could not convince him this was a dangerous game he was playing.

One day this game almost cost him his life. John and I had gone to town for something andthe kids, now seven, eight and eleven, were alone at home. As a car sped along the road, Bimbo gave
chase. But the people who were inside
that vehicle were malicious and cruel.
As Bimbo got along side the speeding automobile, they yanked the door
open. The impact caught Bimbo off guard,
hitting him in the head and knocking him out.
The kids heard their raucous laughter as the car sped away from the dog
that lay in a lifeless heap along the road.

We came home a few minutes later to find the
three kids weeping heartbrokenly over Bimbo's limp body which they had brought
into the yard on a crudely fashioned hammock.

"They killed him," Jim sobbed
brokenly. "They did it on
purpose. I saw them. And then I heard them laughing! They killed him on purpose and then they
laughed about it, honest Mom, I heard them," he emphasized through heart wrenching sobs. The girls couldn't even talk. They were crying too hard.

John knelt down and inspected the still body.

"He's not dead", he pronounced and
three sets of tear filled, bloodshot eyes turned to him with a glimmer of
hope.

"He's not?" they asked in unison, in
disbelief, their sobbing arrested, their faces begging for affirmation.

"No, he's knocked out, but I think he'll be
alright. Animals can be strong that
way. Give him time."

Three kids knelt down, hugging the shaggy still
form gently, lovingly, willing the body to life. They didn't leave his side and about half an
hour later, Bimbo stirred and slowly, dazedly got up. The kids were ecstatic.

Bimbo was pretty lethargic for a while but he got
back to be his normal self in a few days buthe never again chased cars after that experience. He had learned his lesson the hard way.

That blow on the head from that car did affect
him though. It set a pattern of
convulsions for Bimbo that plagued him from that day on. The episodes were not frequent, but once or
twice a year after that, Bimbo would go into spasms where he would fall, his
feet kicking convulsively, his mouth frothing and his eyes rolled back till
only the white was visible under the still open lids. These episodes would last for about five
minutes subsiding gradually until Bimbo would get up groggily and then go
slowly to his dog house to rest. He'd be
listless for a couple of days but he always became himself again. Until the next time. This always worried the kids.

The fits came more frequently with each passing year. It was just before Easter and Bimbo was ten when he had a particularly
bad seizure. His lethargy did not go
away. Within a week after the episode,
Bimbo had lost his sight, then his hearing.
He could feel our touch but did not know how to find us. So the kids and I would come to him. We'd stroke him, pat him, love him, and our
tears ran down our cheeks in rivers. He
strained to maintain that touch, to hold on to the contact. We missed meals. We forgot about Easter preparations. We waded into puddles to lead Bimbo out onto
whatever dry patches of the yard were left from the spring thaw.

We spent three days outside with Bimbo. We walked with him, we talked to him, we kept
our arms around him. We maintained
constant contact with him. And we cried,
all of us, constantly, uncontrollably.
He was so pathetic. He so wanted
our presence. That was all we could give
him now for all the love he had given us over the years.

Then on the morning of the fourth day, we got up
and Bimbo was nowhere to be found. We
searched. It was no use calling. He couldn't hear us. We never did find his body. Somebody later told us that a loving animal
never dies at home. It always goes away
to die. Bimbo must have known he was
going to die. He went away. He spared us that final awful sight - the
sight of his dead body.

But
in our hearts, Bimbo still lives. He is
still happy. His tail is still wagging,
and those sparkling eyes are still shining with that mischievous glint that he
got when he'd done something great!